


Eggs and Toast and Love Confessions

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And John and Sherlock both being stupid, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, But working it all out in the end, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Season/Series 03, Sweet, Top John, kissing lots of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 08:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2102403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These two really are such idiots, but they figure it out in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggs and Toast and Love Confessions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaHouseMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/gifts).



> I was prompted to write a fic using this: https://twitter.com/Markgatiss/status/495528899137503232 as a guide, so that's what this is. It was supposed to be funny, but...that's not really my strong point. So, it's a a very little bit angsty and sweet and sexy instead.

The day everything finally happens starts as typically as any other day does for John and Sherlock. Wintery. Blustery. Grey. It's the day all - well, _most_ , anyway - of the unsaid things are finally said, and the tension that's been building for years finally crests and breaks. It's the day both everything and nothing changes between them. On that day, at 9:06am, John is sitting outside Speedy's having a cup of coffee when Sherlock strides past, not even seeing him there.

He looks flustered and annoyed, hair wild and flat on one side, as if he'd been sleeping on it. He must have left without a shower, which he does often when a case is particularly urgent. John watches bemusedly as he tries to open the door to 221 without keys, fumbles in the pockets of the Belstaff for a moment, then growls in frustration and bangs his fist on the door.

"JOHN!" Sherlock tilts his head back and glares up at the windows of 221b, as if by willpower alone, he can make John appear at the curtain.

John arcs an eyebrow, grins, takes a sip of his coffee. He's the only person sitting at the small scrubby tables outside Speedy's. It's cold, no one wants to take their coffee outside. Sherlock still hasn't seen him.

"JOHN!! I lost my keys!! JOHN!" Sherlock's face has taken on that somewhat feral expression he wears when he's about to really lose control.

John should probably step in.

"Are you or are you not in possession of a phone, Sherlock?" John says calmly, watching with amusement as those silvery green eyes snap round and fix on his own deep blue ones. "No need to shout."

"What on earth are you doing _there_ , John?" Sherlock says this as if John never has any right to be anywhere except in the flat, waiting for Sherlock. Which, on reflection, is probably exactly what he does think, and close enough to what John thinks himself, so it's fine. It's more than fine, it's good.

"Having a cup of coffee. We were out and I didn't feel like going to the shop." John takes another sip of coffee, unable to stop his eyes from roaming affectionately over Sherlock's face, so familiar and comforting. Sometimes he thinks he could never see anyone else's face for the rest of his life, just Sherlock's. It's the only face he's interested in, the only face he sees when his eyes close at night. "Come sit with me. What are you on about? You left the crack of dawn."

Sherlock flops down hard in the rickety wooden chair across from John and it rocks, Sherlock's leg flying up instinctively to balance him. He almost falls flat on his back on the sidewalk. But John's laughing and Sherlock's laughing, and that familiar frisson of electricity passes between them as they grin at each other. John shivers. Luckily he can just say he's cold if Sherlock asks. He clears his throat as the laughter fades. Now, they watch each other, taking the other in, gauging his mood. They feel their way around each other like this, always; carefully, gently.

For men so hopelessly bound to each other, they can sometimes barely speak to each other without stammering. _If you would just come out with it, John. Maybe it wouldn't be like this._

"Case. Lestrade called early. Your door was shut. Didn't want to wake you." Sherlock's eyes flick down to his lap, and then back up at John.

They shine golden and glittering in the mid-morning sunshine, a stray curl blowing across his forehead, and John's heart gives a leap. Always so beautiful, even when he doesn't mean to be.

"I told you. I'm home, for real. I'm all in, Sherlock. _All. In._ Don't exclude me, yeah?" John's been home at Baker Street for four months, four months of tiptoeing round each other, of aborted conversations and John trying not to stare when Sherlock walks nude out of the shower with a loose towel hanging on his perfect hips. Four months of awkward accidental touches, John's knee resting against Sherlock's on the sofa, a brush of thighs in the kitchen, Sherlock's arm draping behind John's shoulders in a cab. Four months of  carefully _not_ saying anything they actually need to say.

"I didn't mean to exclude you, John. I simply thought I would take care of some of the initial..."

John shoots him an incredulous look, one that makes Sherlock's mouth tick up at the corner.

"Yes, alright, I get it. I'm sorry. I'll wake you next time."

"Damn right you will. That's better. When I woke up and you weren't here, I felt a bit lost." It's supposed to sound like a joke. Why does it not sound like a joke?

John knows why. Same reason it's always been.

Sherlock's smile is wistful, sad even. "I'm always lost without you, John, as you well know. Can't even get into the flat without you, apparently."

John can't swallow suddenly, the look on Sherlock's face so earnest and genuine that it lodges somewhere around John's sternum and stays there. They stare into each other's eyes just a few moments longer than is normal for mates, even mates as close as they are, and John has to inhale deeply and reteach himself how to breathe before he can speak again.

"I'll go get us some takeaway coffees, and we can discuss the case at home. Alright?"

Sherlock jerks his head in an approximation of a nod and holds out his hand, palm up. "Keys."

John should be annoyed, he really should. He should feel offended at Sherlock's presumptions, his innate rudeness, his inability to feign the niceties even after all this time. Instead all he can feel is affection so surging and strong that it feels tight, as if his ribcage is suddenly too small to contain his lungs. All he can think is how Sherlock is the only person he would ever take this from, and he'd take anything Sherlock gave him, anything at all. How they have so much to make up for, so much wasted time, that he doesn't even care what Sherlock gives him or takes from him, as long as Sherlock is the one doing it.

_I love you. I love you so much I can't breathe._

Of course he doesn't say it. He's never said it. Except when it was safe, bound by the confines of friendship, in the context of John and Mary as a couple. When it was guaranteed not to lead anywhere that was uncharted. Christ, but he can be a coward.

John tosses Sherlock his own keys, which he'd left on the coffee table that morning, and Sherlock catches them and grins in that crooked way that's always made John's knees a bit weak. Sure enough, there's that familiar trembling down his spine, hamstrings going wobbly. All he can see is the glint of winter sunlight in Sherlock's eyes, and he loves him so much his throat aches.

"I'll just get the coffees, then." He hates how his voice tremors. Hates how transparent he is. Because god, Sherlock has to know, he has to and he's never said. Course John hasn't either. It's just become ridiculous now. How much he wants. How his thoughts are consumed by wondering about the smell of Sherlock's hair and what his skin would taste like and the sound of his voice gone husky and gasping _John. John, please. Yes, there, don't stop._ All he thinks about is that they belong to each other, that they always have, and that they've simply done everything all wrong. It seethes within him, the question of what they could have been. What they could still be, if John only had the bollocks to say something.

Sherlock tosses the keys up in the air and catches them, flashes John a dazzling grin and sweeps over to the door. As he disappears inside, John breathes through his nose, wills himself (as he's done so many times he can no longer count) to be calm, and goes inside Speedy's to order the coffees.

***

Sherlock is curled in his chair when John comes into the flat, scrubbing one large hand across the back of his head. He always looks impossibly tiny when he's in his thinking position. Delicate. Fragile. John knows he is fragile in so many ways. John's always been worried about breaking him, of asking too much. Asking him to open himself too much.

John slaps a smile on his face, lips tight, and lifts his eyebrows. "Hey. Here's your coffee."

Sherlock nods at the table and John understands, sets the paper cup down and settles in his own chair. "So, tell me about the case."

Sherlock temples his hands, stares round the entire sitting room for a long moment. His eyes rest on everything except John. John knows his process by now and doesn't interrupt. Just sips his coffee, frothy and strong, and waits. When Sherlock finally meets John's eyes, his own are troubled.

He opens his mouth once and then closes it.

John still says nothing. This is his part. He is patient where Sherlock is rash, quiet when Sherlock is shouting, calm when Sherlock is frantic. It's his job to be so, even when he's feeling the opposite. He'll know when and if Sherlock needs a push to speak, and until then, he waits.

Sherlock opens his mouth again, tongue poking into the corner, and the bridge of his nose wrinkles in thought. "Something is troubling you."

A cold stone drops into John's stomach. He is not remotely prepared to have this conversation.

"I'm fine." He sits back in his chair, away from the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. Sips his coffee to occupy his hands and face. "I thought we had a case to discuss, yeah? I'm fine, Sherlock. Leave it."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, no you're not. You're...anxious."

"When are we not anxious, Sherlock? Never a dull moment for us, eh?" He knows how weak it sounds, but his mouth can't form the right words. He actually is starting to feel like he can't physically breathe. Like his ribs are constricting the expansion of his lungs, digging into them sharply.

Sherlock looks at him from under his eyelashes, raises an eyebrow. "John. I know you. I'm not an idiot."

"Aren't you?" The minute it's out, he regrets it. Just a stupid retort, but it sounds awful, the tone all wrong. Sherlock's face crumples for a split second before rearranging itself. "Christ, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"I think you did. A bit." Sherlock leans forward, plants his feet on the floor. "Are you angry with me, John?"

"No. Fuck. No, Sherlock, no, of course not. What could I be angry with you about?" He wants to surge forward, take Sherlock's face in his hands, feel smooth skin and morning stubble against his palms, tell him how he loves him so passionately and deeply that it's in his bones. That he wouldn't even _exist_ without it anymore, that his love is written in his chromosomes, embedded in his cell structure. Sherlock would like that, probably. Instead he runs his hands hard over his own face, digs into his scalp with his fingernails. "All you've done for me over the last few years...how could I? I think you've got a free pass to be a complete dick for quite a long time before I'm permitted to get angry with you again."

Sherlock huffs a laugh, looking thoughtful. "You would have done the same."

"Except I didn't. I didn't get shot, and then concoct a plan while I was dying in a hospital bed in order to protect you for months from your murderous lying wife, and then let you come home after all was said and done and never say a word about..." John fades out, aware he's about to say too much, things that cannot be unsaid. He bites into his bottom lip.

"About what, John?" A quiet has come over Sherlock now. His focus is entirely on John, searing in its intensity.

It's too much. John can't look into those perfect eyes any longer, not when they're having this conversation. He takes his coffee between both hands and gets up, paces over to the evidence wall and stares at it with unseeing eyes.

"Nothing. Doesn't matter."

"Matters to me." Sherlock's voice so quiet. So sincere. So fraught with emotion.

There's something simmering in the room now, the air charged. It feels to John as though they're in a roller coaster car, teetering right at the summit of the most brilliantly terrifying drop. There is no way back except to fall, no way forward except the same. His hands are shaking on his coffee cup.

"I really don't want to do this now, Sherlock."

There's a beat of silence. Then Sherlock sighs resignedly. "I cannot force you, of course. Though I confess I'm not entirely sure what _this_ means, and I would desperately like to."

John's eyes fall closed. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on his back. "Oh, Sherlock. No. You don't. You don't want to have this conversation with me."

"I very much do, actually, John." Sherlock says sharply. "You've been tiptoeing round this flat for months as though you don't belong here, as though you're staying in a hotel, and I'm the over friendly concierge. Not as though I'm your best friend. It's grown a bit tedious."

John exhales heavily, feeling much like a trapped animal. Sherlock's determined to draw this from him, no matter the consequence. There's no escape from Sherlock when he's like this.

"Sherlock. I'm sorry if I've made you feel like I'm angry. I am not. At all. I promise you that."

"Well _that's_ reassuring." Sherlock gets up, floorboards creaking as he walks toward the kitchen and back to his chair. "Can you at least look at me, John?"

"No." He answers far too quickly, sounds snappish again. He can feel his jaw working, stomach roiling. "Shit. I'm sorry. It's just. This isn't easy for me."

"And looking at me makes it harder?"

"Yes."

"I'll try not to feel insulted by that."

John laughs, because he just can't not. Sherlock always makes him laugh, always has, even in the most inappropriate and absurd moments. _We can't giggle, it's a crime scene._

"Don't be."

"So tell me, John. What's wrong? What's _been_ wrong? I've tried to make you feel at home here, to make you as happy here as you had been with Mary, before..."

"Sherlock, I've _never_ been happier anywhere than I am here. Baker Street is the only place that's ever felt like home." _Because this is where you are, and you're home. You. Doesn't matter where I am. As long as I'm with you._ He can't ever say them, the things that really matter, fear swelling in his stomach. "Mary never made me happy the way..."

 _Shit fuck goddammit._ He can't make the words come. His stomach hurts.

Behind him, Sherlock sucks in a great shuddering breath. "The way that what, John?"

"The way." John grinds his teeth, claws at the back of his neck. His fingers are sweaty. "The way that."

" _Say it_ , John." Sherlock's voice is trembling.

John whirls, and almost drops his coffee cup on the floor. Sherlock looks completely wrecked, his eyes red rimmed and shining, his hair wild from his fingers in it, his face devoid of colour. There's a desperation in his face John has never seen, not even when he was bleeding out on this very floor. 

"Oh god, Sherlock. Are you alright?"

"Say. It." Sherlock bites at the inside of his mouth, his cheeks going even more concave than usual. "Please."

"Oh god, Sherlock," John says again, overwhelmed by the suddenness of this conversation. It feels like something they should have prepared for. Something that should have been arranged, had a set date. Known what they were going to talk about and had notes or something. Not something they fell into with no warning on a grey London morning with nothing special at all to distinguish it in their history. It feels like it deserves a blue plaque -- _Here on this date in 2016, John Watson finally told Sherlock Holmes that he loved him_. "Why today? Why must we do this now?"

"John, I don't even know what it is we're doing. But whatever it is, I don't think it can wait any longer, do you?" Sherlock's voice is shaking.

John chokes back the desperate noises that are trying to make their way out of his throat, the tears that are threatening in his eyes. "Sherlock."

"God, _what_? What is happening, John? Tell me." Sherlock is pleading. Sherlock never pleads.

"I just thought...when I came home...no, shit, sod this. I can't. I just can't, I'm sorry." He's suffocating with the weight of this, with what it will mean for them. His legs aren't supporting him anymore. He drifts down onto the couch, putting his coffee cup on the table harder than he should have and coffee geysers out of the lid, splashes all over the wood.

"John."

John's eyes are closed when he feels the weight of Sherlock settling beside him, the sofa dipping down. Sherlock sits there for at least five minutes before he moves a muscle. When he does, it's to lay a warm palm against the small of John's back. The touch is unexpected, and intimate, overwhelming in it's comfort. It's a touch unlike any they've shared before. It means something different, it's a line crossed. John breathes out staggeringly hard.

"Sherlock, I just -- I don't know how to talk about things like this."

"Then don't. Talk to me about something else. Tell me about dinner with Stamford the other night. About that play you saw in Covent Garden last week. Just talk to me. All we talk about is cases anymore." Sherlock smiles crookedly, now absently rubbing circles on John's back. "Perhaps I subconsciously excluded you from this morning's activities because -- because I want to talk to you about something other than work. I _miss_ you, John."

"I know. I know you do. Fuck. I know. I'm so sorry. I miss you, too. I haven't meant to be distant."

"You've been through a lot this year. I realise that. Mary, the pregnancy being false." Sherlock falls silent.

"Jesus you're fucking daft sometimes. It's not about Mary." John swallows very hard; he seems to have no saliva left. "It's _you_." John finally opens his eyes, looks at Sherlock in profile, the perfect pout of his lips, the aquiline nose, prominent brow. So beautiful, so unaware of it. John's always wants to tell him, tell him how he takes his breath away sometimes, how many hours he's spent just watching his pulse flickering in the graceful curve of his neck. Tell him that if there's one person. _That One Person._ One person that's everything, that it's him.

"It's me, what?"

"You." John stares, disbelieving. "You almost went and died on me again, you bloody great moron. My wife shot you. You recall that? I can see how you might forget, a little thing like being shot. Minor interruption in the day, really."

"Oh." Sherlock stares forward, eyes fixed on the fireplace. "I had no idea that would still upset you after all these months."

_If you were dying, what would you say?_

John has already passed the point of no return. Just say it. "Sherlock. If you had left me again, I would never have survived it."

"Oh." Sherlock looks as if John's just asked him to change the channel on the telly. Though John knows that actually means he's panicking internally, that his heart is racing and he can't form thoughts. His hand has stopped its leisurely kneading of John's spine. He blinks rapidly, and John knows he's trying to process what John's just said.

Now that he's begun, it's as if a dam has broken. The words spill from him without eloquence or logic, "Sherlock, breathe. Breathe and listen to me. I should have said something before, I know. I should have said it better, and more -- something -- fiercely, I guess. I should have made sure you knew, instead of assuming and guessing and. Shit. I should have done so many things differently and I should have just had the bollocks to speak up but god -- I don't know. The words just never came and I was afraid, I was so fucking afraid, Sherlock. That you'd say I was mad, that it wasn't like that, that you just didn't see me like that, and then I knew, after the wedding I knew that you did, that it wasn't just me, but it was too late and fuck I thought about leaving Mary all the time, but there was the baby and I felt like a shit doing that and then you wouldn't return my calls and I thought maybe I was completely delusional. And then -- when she -- when I thought I was going to lose you again, I just. Couldn't say anything. I wanted you any way I could have you, didn't seem as important anymore, as long as you were alive and here and with me."

Sherlock's breathing as hard as John is, though he's been sitting there silently. He's still staring at the fireplace. That's alright, that's fine. It would be harder, probably impossible, to say these things with Sherlock's beautiful perfect intense eyes boring into him.

John's shoulders are heaving. There's a pain in his ribs and his head is pounding. This is terrifying. It's like jumping out of a helicopter at the end of a frayed rope, with no parachute and nothing to land on except sand and fragile feet with lots of breakable little bones, which is something he's actually done and right now it seems like the significantly less intimidating option.

He pulls in a long inhalation and just goes for it. What he's never said, and always, always should have. "Sherlock. I love you. I love you so much that it scares the shit out of me. I've never loved anyone like this and I think it could destroy me sometimes. I know it could. You could. And I would let you. I know you wouldn't, but. You could. I would let you and I wouldn't care. And I want you, and I know you don't, you just don't do that, but _god_ how I want you. I want to be with you the rest of our lives and I want to kiss you good morning and good night and I want to have your arms around me when we sleep and I want your breath on my neck and my hands in your hair and I want to share your bed and your life and everything. Everything. I want _everything_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock is breathing very fast, his nostrils flaring and his jaw working in a rapid tight circles. John waits. And waits. Sherlock is breathing so fast it's becoming a bit worrisome. John wants to apologise, take it back, tell Sherlock it's fine, it's all fine. They can carry on as before, it doesn't have to change anything --

"Kiss me." Sherlock still isn't looking at him.

"What?"

"Kiss me, _please_." Sherlock does turn to him now, and his face is so open, so receptive and sweet and yearning, that John can't help himself and reaches out, sweeps a hand over Sherlock's forehead and down the side of his face.

"Really? I thought..." This is too fast. They haven't even had time to talk about it properly, and --

"Yes, John, really. I've thought about it so many times. Please."

"So you do?"

"Love you? _Want_ you?"

John nods, his tongue absolutely useless, his throat burning.

Sherlock melts against him just that much, their knees aligning, Sherlock's bony elbow jabbing into the top of John's thigh. John’s hand is cupping his face. He's so close, so looming. Sherlock takes up the whole room.

"Yes, John. Both. _I love you_ is actually entirely inadequate. I've died twice and come back. Who do you think I was coming back for?"

The profundity of that statement, though John knew it, is staggering. He can't talk. So he does what Sherlock told him to do, as he usually does, and kisses him.

The first brush is soft, lips tentative, shy. John curls his knuckles along Sherlock's jaw, his head already light. He's kissing Sherlock. _Seven years_. They've waited seven years. People aren't supposed to wait seven years to kiss the person they're in love with, because its overwhelming, because its incomprehensible once it happens.

Sherlock tilts his head, his lips part against John's lips, and - _oh god_ \- there's Sherlock's tongue, just the tip, sliding against the inner rim of Johns lower lip. John grabs at Sherlock's shirt, pulling him close, looking for something to anchor himself to, because shit, he's swooning, he's actually _swooning_ for Christssake. His head is floating, dizzy and shivering, as Sherlock's tongue delves deeper into his mouth and Sherlock's arms are suddenly closing around him, warm and real and heavy, and Sherlock's murmuring against his mouth.

"What? What?" John's voice so raspy and desperate, Sherlock's bottom lip laying between both of his.

"I said." Sherlock pulls back, nudging his nose against John's, "I said, I want you. I want you, too. I want all those things, too, John. I do. I always have."

"But you always said..."

"I know what I always said, but _you_. With you I would. I do, with you, I do." Sherlock puts his mouth over John's again, his hands coming up to splay wide across John's shoulder blades and press their chests together as the kiss deepens.  

Oh god this is amazing. That much more amazing for the surprise of it, because John had absolutely no idea when he woke up this morning that today was _That Day_ , and now here's Sherlock in his arms, kissing him, his warm tongue soft and slick and touching every part of John's mouth it can reach. It's all happening so fast, after all these years of bottling it up. No time to overthink, just to feel, to do what comes naturally. Sherlock's right hand twists up against John's neck, cradling the back of his head, thumb rubbing hot behind his ear.

They're sitting at an uncomfortable angle for this, knees bashed together, waists twisted awkwardly. John can't touch Sherlock the way he wants to.

"Let's go to bed." John says, low and dark, mouthing wet kisses over Sherlock's jaw. "I want you right now."

"Oh yes, John, yes, okay." Sherlock's voice is strained.

"Sherlock." John pulls back enough to look at that beautiful face, now even more so for the reddened cheeks and kiss swollen mouth. He looks twenty years old, eyes wide and black, lips parted. "We don't have to if you --"

"I _want_ to." Sherlock's voice doesn't waver.

"Have you? Before? Shit, I'm sorry, I'm kind of killing the mood here, but I want to make sure you're alright with...everything." John thumbs over Sherlock's mouth, dipping the pad of his finger into that ridiculously gorgeous cupid's bow that's always made him crazy.

"I have. But not for a very long time." Sherlock's hand tangles up with John's hand, and Sherlock's fingers are against his own mouth, which is something John can't look at without a resounding shiver racing through his nerve endings, so he looks at the wall behind Sherlock's ear and breathes.

"You have? Because I thought that --"

"Yes, I'm aware you've been labouring under the illusion that I'm a virgin for nearly the entire time we've known each other. Mycroft is not always a wholly accurate source of information about me, you realise?"

John blushes, chastened, and Sherlock kisses against their conjoined fingers.

"So. So with men, then?" John hates how his voice squeaks, how he sounds embarrassed, because he's not, he's really not, but Christ, Sherlock's flicking the tip of his tongue over John's fingertips now and fuck, just _fuck_. Of course his voice is doing strange things.

"Mmmm." Sherlock stops licking at John's fingers long enough to say, "Yes, of course."

"And did you...enjoy it?"

Sherlock smirks at him. "Why do you think I had to eliminate it all those years? Sex is rather -- addictive. For me."

"Oh. Oh god." John blinks against the sensation of Sherlock's tongue dragging over the pulse point in his wrist, his mouth clamping down and sucking on that sensitive skin. John should probably tell him to stop, that they need to talk more about this, but his mind and his body are just saying _hot_  and _Sherlock_ and _please god yes_ , and he just can't make himself put a stop to it.

"You like that?" Sherlock looks up at him, eyes half moons, lashes dark and lowered, lips against John's wrist.

"I like that." John can barely breathe.

"Which part? Me being a bit addicted to sex, or me sucking on your wrist?" Sherlock's looking at him rather like he's something Sherlock wants to eat, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Yes. Both. God, I -- I never thought you'd look at me like that. It's amazing. So many years, Sherlock. I've loved you for so long." John puts three fingers under Sherlock's chin and pulls him up to kiss him again, more forcefully this time, and its messy and wet and beautiful, both of them grunting and sighing into each other's mouths like this will never be enough, and it won’t, John knows it won’t. It’s going to overtake them, it’s going to consume them, at least for a while, and John’s not going to fight it. Because he’s wanted and wanted without having, and now. Now it’s all changed.

Sherlock begins to tip them back to lay on the sofa, but John grips his biceps and pushes him back. "Bed. I want to see every part of you."

"Yes. Same." Sherlock is stunning like this, and wholly new. John's never seen his eyes so alight, his skin glowing and flushed, a smile constantly playing at the edges of his mouth.

"Come on then, beautiful." John says it because it's true, and because he can, because he's held back from saying things like that to Sherlock for too long. He says it for himself, and is entirely unprepared for the effect it has on Sherlock.

He stops as John is pulling him up off the sofa, stops halfway, literally crouched, knees bent. He blinks up at John, confusion and something else, some deeper emotion, in his eyes. "Did you just call me beautiful?"

John's confused now. Maybe Sherlock hates pet names, endearments. In fact, thinking about it, yes. That seems exactly the kind of thing Sherlock would find _tedious_. "Yes, because you are. _So_ beautiful. Would you rather -- that I don’t? Say things like that?"

Sherlock shakes his head, swallows and swallows, can't seem to get enough saliva to talk. John has to, he just can't not, and he pulls Sherlock up to standing, leans himself against Sherlock's entire body, their shoes overlapping, and kisses his throat, the hollow under his jaw, his earlobe. "I love you. And I'll never call you beautiful again if you don't like it."

Finally Sherlock licks his lips and wraps his arms around John's waist and says, "I like it. I've just -- no one has ever called me beautiful before. Ever."

John immediately feels the kind of white hot anger he hasn't felt since he was a quick tempered rowdy teenager, and wants to punch in the teeth of anyone who was allowed to touch Sherlock this way and had the audacity to not tell him how perfect and gorgeous he was while they were doing it.

"No one?"

"No."

“ _Ever?_ ”

“No.”

"But you like it? It’s alright?" John's mouth against Sherlock's neck is possibly more miraculous than actual miracles. He never wants to talk again unless it's against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock nods, and it's bashful, painfully sweet. Fuck, he's actually blushing.

"Sherlock Holmes." John pulls his lips away from Sherlock's neck long enough to take his face firmly between his hands and look in his eyes. "Look at me. You are the most spectacularly beautiful creature I have ever seen. You make my fucking heart skip a beat every time I look at you. You are exquisite. Your mouth, your eyes, your goddamned amazing neck that I am going to cover with bite marks so everyone knows you're finally mine. _You. Are. Gorgeous._ I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my entire life. And I am going to tell you everyday from now until you believe me, and then I'll keep telling you anyway, just because you deserve to hear it."

Sherlock is looking at him like he’s in pain, and John kisses his mouth, which is wobbling, and his eyes, which are tearing up, and his blushing cheeks, and finally Sherlock wraps his hands around the back of John’s neck and murmurs, “You love me.”

“I love you.” John nods, and squeezes his hands at the sides of Sherlock’s head and kisses him so fiercely that it hurts. “I should have said it before, and I’m sorry about that, but now I’m going to say it all the time. Alright?”

“Alright.”

John kisses him again, gently this time, and slides his right hand down to take Sherlock’s left. “I want to take you to bed now.”

“I want that, too.”

“My room?”

Sherlock blushes deeper and shifts his eyes down to their entwined hands, rubs one thumb over the heel of John’s hand. “Yes, because I don’t have any. Any. Anything. In my room, I mean.”

John laughs, and it feel so good to laugh, because Christ the last half hour has been intense, and he kisses the side of Sherlock’s neck, and says, “Why would you think I do?”

“Because you --” Sherlock stops and looks down again.

“Masturbate?’ John grins and tips Sherlock’s head up. “No need to be embarrassed about it. I’m not.”

Sherlock grins too, tentatively, and John wonders how long it’s really been for him, because he’s so shy about all this, and John feels a moment of hesitation.

“Are you _sure_? About this? We can slow down.”

Sherlock pulls John toward the steps to his room, shaking his head. “God, yes, John, I am so sure. I think about you _all the time._ Like this. Doing this.”

“I do too. Think about you. That’s what I’m thinking about when I’m. How do you think about me and not -- ?” John’s stumbling up the steps behind Sherlock, whose much longer legs are skipping steps and practically running.

“I do, I do. Just not in my bedroom. In the shower.” Sherlock swings them round at the top of the steps and they stumble into John’s room. Sherlock closes the door with his foot and pushes John back onto the bed, which is in the corner against the wall, and John lands with so much force he bounces a little and knocks his head against the wall. Sherlock climbs on top of him, breathless. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, are you alright?”

John rubs the back of his head a little and laughs again, “I don’t give a shit, it’s fine. Just come _here_.” He grabs the front of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls him down, their elbows getting all twisted together and John’s neck is at an odd angle, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth and his weight laying across John’s hips, and finally. Just fucking _finally_.

Sherlock kisses messily and enthusiastically, and it’s pretty obvious he hasn’t done this in a long time, and John loves it, he loves how genuine this all is and how not perfect. This is them. This is how they are. They’re a mess, a ridiculous disaster. Sherlock’s sucking across his collarbone and he can feel it right down to his toes, which are still trapped inside his shoes. God, how are they still dressed?

He pushes at Sherlock’s shirt buttons. “Get this off. I want to touch you.”

Sherlock stutters and blinks, kneels back and starts unbuttoning his shirt clumsily. John pulls at the hem and untucks it from his trousers, running his hands flat over Sherlock’s stomach, which is flushed maroon all the way up to his neck, which is blotchy and purplish. Sherlock manages to get his shirt off and throws it on the floor behind them, and goes to undo his belt. John puts a stilling hand on Sherlock’s, and their eyes meet. Sherlock is straddling John’s stomach, and John’s in a perfect position to --

“Oh.” Sherlock says once. And then, roughly, “Have you ever?”

“Yes.” John says slowly, slipping Sherlock’s trouser button through the buttonhole and pulling down his zip. He slides both hands into Sherlock’s pants, feeling the warm smooth curve of his hips, and pushes pants and trousers down over his spread thighs. “I’m not gay, doesn’t mean I’ve never been with a man before.”

“Oh.” Sherlock says again, which is apparently the limits of his speech right now, which is fine by John.

John bunches Sherlock’s trousers and pants rather unskillfully right above his bent knees, resting against John’s stomach, and leans up. Sherlock braces himself with a hand against the wall as John nuzzles his face into the hot musky crease in front of him, and licks softly at the skin under wiry brown hairs. Sherlock jerks and folds forward, panting out, “Oh my god, John.”

John puts his left hand against Sherlock’s hip and pushes up a bit more on his right elbow, licking more forcefully, salt on his tongue. “I have been waiting so long to do this. Jesus Christ.”

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds a bit like whimpering, and it goes straight to John’s spinal column, trilling along his nerve endings until he feels like his entire body is buzzing, and he takes the tip of Sherlock’s cock between his lips and licks into the slit, and Sherlock definitely whimpers this time. His back arches beautifully and John tightens his grip on his hip to keep him still while he takes him completely into his mouth.

John hasn’t done this for quite a while either, but it’s natural, and his body remembers how this goes, so he licks a long stripe down the underside of Sherlock’s cock as he backs his head away and then sinks down again. Sherlock bucks his hips, his fingers tight in John’s hair, and makes a hiccuping noise in his throat. John pulls off completely and looks up at Sherlock, whose eyes are shut and his mouth is hanging open and he already looks completely destroyed, which is the most brilliant thing John has ever seen.

He rings two fingers around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and says, “Alright?”

“ _Fuuuuuuuck_ , yes. Yes, John, Jesus Christ, yes.” Sherlock says slowly and without opening his eyes.

“You can pull. My hair. You can pull it. If you want.” He licks into the slit again, and Sherlock groans deeply as John hollows his cheeks and sucks as he takes him in all the way.

“You would like that? If I pulled your hair?” Sherlock pants out the words, and as John nods as much as he can with his mouth otherwise occupied, Sherlock does pull, twisting his fingers and yanking until John’s eyes are watering. “Good?”

John pulls off long enough to say, “Fuck yes. _Harder._ ” and then bobs his head and licks and licks until Sherlock is shaking, one arms straight against the wall, holding him up, and with the other, tugging at John’s hair desperately.

John’s lips are going numb, his throat aches. He takes Sherlock in until he’s at the back, the very back, of his throat, and cups his tongue around him. Sherlock’s whole body is quivering, his fingernails scratching into John’s scalp, and everything is Sherlock. He can smell him and taste him and feel him, and it’s overwhelming. This is what he’s always, always wanted. He sucks harder, starting to choke a little. Sherlock’s cock thickens against his tongue, and he’s making little _Huh huh huh_ noises.

John moves the ring of his fingers in counterpoint to his mouth, and Sherlock jerks forward with a gasp. John slides his hand around to squeeze at Sherlock’s arse, run his hand down his thigh, and feel his muscles gone all tense and trembling. He pulls off, and Sherlock whines in protest. “I’m not going to stop. Just, it’s okay if you. If you want to come, like this, it’s fine, it’s good.”

“In your mouth? You like that?” Sherlock’s shoulders are heaving, curled forward as he shivers, face red and tiny perfect beads of sweat at his temples and above his lip.

John smiles at that, because god, Sherlock is the most endearing human being alive when he’s not being a complete dick, and says, “Yeah, in my mouth. Yeah, I like that. Especially you. With you, I want that. I want to taste you so badly, I can’t _stand_ it.”

“Oh.” John watches as a hard shudder passes through Sherlock, making his stomach muscles ripple. “Okay.”

“You’re going to come in my mouth, and I’m going to swallow you down, like I’ve wanted to do for _fucking ages_.” John licks at the head and then trails the fingertips of his left hand down the crease of Sherlock’s arse. He dips in experimentally, even though he can’t really do what he wants to right now, because he doesn’t want to stop sucking Sherlock’s cock long enough to go get the lube, but he just wants to see, see what Sherlock will do.

Sherlock moans and pushes back into John’s hand and then forward into John’s mouth, and John pushes his fingers in a little farther, until he can feel the pucker of skin against his index finger, and Sherlock pushes harder until the tip of John’s finger dips just inside. John ends up smiling around Sherlock’s cock, which makes Sherlock laugh low down in his chest and pull at John's hair. John pets between Sherlock’s legs, stroking his perineum in circles and passing a flat palm over his testicles, then down the insides of his thighs as he sucks and licks and hums. Sherlock thickens again, and John doesn’t pull off this time. He quickens his movements and thrusts his tongue at the base, salty and wet with saliva. Sherlock’s fingers tighten and he yanks John’s face forward, whispering, “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” and the first flood into John’s mouth is much more than he was expecting, and he gags a little as Sherlock keeps coming, hot and thick over his tongue and filling the space between his gums and his cheeks and he swallows and swallows as Sherlock quivers to pieces above him.

When it’s over, John licks him very gently, cleaning him up through the aftershocks. There are red ovals on his hip from John’s fingers digging in, and John kisses each one, and then the freckle over the bone, and eases Sherlock down beside him. John rolls to his side and curls against Sherlock’s chest. “Good?”

Sherlock makes an inhuman kind of half howl, half grunt and twists his face into John’s hair.

“I’ll take that as a yes. I have been wanting to do that for _so. long._ You have no idea.” John runs his hand all over Sherlock’s chest, the taste of his come still strong in his mouth. John’s so hard he thinks it might actually kill him if he doesn’t come soon, but he doesn’t want to rush Sherlock, who seems to be essentially unconscious. He takes off Sherlock’s pants and trousers, which had still been rucked around his calves, and drops them to the floor, then kisses Sherlock’s belly - sweaty, delicious - and up over his chest, until he closes his lips over Sherlock’s thumping heartbeat in his neck and begins to suck.

Sherlock hums and tilts his head so John can get a better angle. John’s still dressed. That has to change. He kneels up and yanks his jumper and tee shirt over his head in one movement, and then rolls on his back to kick his jeans and pants onto the floor, then rolls back to drape his naked body against Sherlock’s naked body, and it’s perfect how they fit together. John bends his knee over Sherlock’s thigh, noses at his neck, and says quietly, “Now where was I?”

John sucks at Sherlock’s skin and tongues at his throat, and he can’t help his hips rolling against Sherlock’s hip, his foreskin sliding over the head and back. He’s immediately shivering, electricity spiraling down his limbs, making his fingers twitch and his toes curl. Sherlock turns and puts his hand on John’s hip and then his thigh, and then pushes him flat on his back with purpose. John’s cock is red and wet, laying heavy against the paleness of his belly, and Sherlock kneels over him, rubs his hands over his thighs and his chest, skimming over his cock just enough to make John rock his hips up in response and sob when there’s nothing there to push against.

“John, I want.” Sherlock seems incapable of articulating what it is exactly, that he wants, but his head tilts to the side, and he trails two fingers up the side of John’s cock and watches with smouldering eyes as John shakes and whines at this lightest of touches. “I want.”

“What do you want, love? What do you want? I’ll give it to you, whatever it is. Tell me." John grabs Sherlock by the forearms and pulls him down so he can kiss him again, and Sherlock moans against his lips, and John wants to feel him moaning, so he puts his hand against Sherlock’s throat to feel the rumble of his vocal chords as they kiss and kiss and then Sherlock is reaching down and wrapping his hand around John and -- “Oh Christ, Jesus Christ, god Sherlock, yes, god, just there, oh --”

He’s shuddering and biting at Sherlock’s mouth when Sherlock abruptly stops and pulls away. “No. Not like this. I want. I want you inside me.”

“Oh _god_.” John puts his teeth into his lip and bangs his head back on the mattress, but he forgets he’s actually crooked and horizontal across the bed, and so his head half hits the wall again, but it’s fine. He slides his hands down Sherlock’s waist and settles them on his hips, where they fit so naturally it’s as if they were shaped to belong just there, all the time. “Are you sure? We don’t have to, I won’t be disappointed or anything if we don’t. I can come just from your, um, hand. Or, even just, rubbing. Against your hip. Or wherever. I'm not fussy."

Sherlock shakes his head, and settles his weight so John's cock is sliding up the crease of his arse, and John grabs at Sherlock's thighs and thrusts up, and when Sherlock puts a sweaty hand on his chest and begins to rock with his thighs tight on the outside of John's thighs, and looks down at John with a wide smile and half closed eyes, John is almost certain he's going to - for the first time in his rather promiscuous life - actually cry during sex. 

He thinks maybe if he talks it will keep the tears at bay, so he chokes out, "You're going to make me cry," which isn't at all what he meant to say, and it's too vulnerable and too honest, something neither of them is very good at being.

Sherlock stops immediately, his hand over John's wildly thumping heart, and looks at him with wide eyes. "I don't like that. I don't want to make you cry, John. Why are you going to cry?"

John closes his own hand over Sherlock's on his chest, and smiles, squeezes his fingers between Sherlock's fingers until he can't tell whose are whose, and says, "No, no, sweetheart. It's good, it's happy crying. It's just, fuck. This is. A lot. This is _heartbreaking_. You. You and me, and finally, and I'm just. I don't think you're supposed to wait this long." He laughs and strokes his palms over Sherlock's thighs, smooth and hot. "Don't stop."

Sherlock puts his other hand on John's thigh, behind him, and folds his feet under John's calves and rocks again, John's cock sliding slick against his arse, and they both moan, Sherlock's head falling back as his mouth falls open.  John puts his hands back on Sherlock's hips, and pushes a little, getting him in the spot where - _Oh fuck yeah just right there_ \- and Sherlock hitches his hips harder and his toes flex under John's legs even though Sherlock isn't hard anymore.

"Still feels good, Sherlock? Even though you already --" John wants Sherlock to want it, wants him keening and bouncing on his thighs, wailing for it, "I just, I don't want to do anything that doesn't feel good to you, alright?"

Sherlock curls over him, licks his lips, bites John's jaw and rubs his arse up and down along John's cock like he's a rutting animal, and John has trouble remembering how breathing works, then Sherlock says in a ragged hush, "This feels so good, John, so good. Put your fingers in me now, or I'll have to do it for you."

"Oh _god_ , Sherlock." John grunts, and pushes his hips up while he drags Sherlock's hips down, and it would be so much better if he was inside, so he points to the bedside table and somehow manages to say, "The lube, it's. There. In the drawer."

Sherlock twists and reaches behind him without moving himself off John's thighs. The bottle is more than half empty, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and John feels just a tiny bit abashed and grins cheekily, shoves at Sherlock's waist and says, "I was only ever thinking about you when I did it."

"I know." Sherlock's voice is low and dusky, and he bites his lip as he lifts John's left hand off his hip and drips far too much lube over his fingers. "There. I need those perfect fingers inside me."

Sherlock flips off and lays on his back next to John, spreads his legs with one knee bent towards the ceiling and one flat against the bed. He watches John expectantly, eyes burning with lust and love and more complicated emotions that they'll have time and hopefully courage to discuss later. He spreads his thighs wider, grabs John's wrist and puts his hand against the heat between his legs. John's cock throbs and there's heat pooling in his thighs and his belly and god he doesn't even want to do this right, he just wants to shove into Sherlock as hard as he can.

"John." Sherlock slides his hand up John's forearm and wiggles his hips, so his testicles lay heavy in John's palm and John's index and middle fingers are right in the position to -- "Oh my god, John."

John pushes a little further, and Sherlock's muscles are looser than they normally would be because he just came, and his body inside is so hot. His cock twitches a little, and he pushes down onto John's fingers while he watches John's hand pumping back and forth in the vee of his thighs.

"Sherlock, god, I never thought --" John leans forward, sliding up Sherlock's body without dislodging his fingers and puts his lips to his sternum, his collarbone, licks a wet messy stripe up his throat, and Sherlock moans and throws his arms around John's shoulders.

"Never thought what, John?" Sherlock mouths at John's hair, pulls him down close until their torsos are flat against each other and John's arm is now at an odd angle for what he's doing, and his forearm cramps a little, but he doesn't care, because Sherlock is against him, sweaty and naked and licking at his temple with his fingers clawing at John's back, and John's life has actually never been better than at this moment.

"This. Us. I never thought we'd have this. Never thought you wanted to." Shit, he feels tears pricking at the backs of his eyes again, a sore spot rising in his throat. He buries his face in Sherlock's neck and tries to blink away the wetness at his eyelashes. His voice shakes when he says, "I love you so much."

Sherlock runs his hands firm and tender up and down John's back, flickers his fingers up into John's hair, and kisses his forehead. "John. I love you. I always have."

John looks up, fingers still gently stroking inside Sherlock, his face wet with tears and sweat, "We've just misunderstood each other for so long, haven't we?"

Sherlock smiles sadly, smoothes John's short fringe back from his face, "Yes, I think possibly no two people have ever been as good at not understanding each other as we are."

John shakes his head and kisses Sherlock hard on the mouth, tongue sliding wet between Sherlock's warm swollen lips, "I think we should stop now. I don't want to be sad, think about all the ways we've fucked this up. I just want to be here with you."

“Yes, you’re right. Oh.” Sherlock arches against him, hipbones poking into John's thighs, and gasps as John works his fingers deeper and twirls a fingertip lightly over the sensitive nub of flesh inside. "Oh oh oh, John, don't stop, right there, oh god."

John grins and pulls his fingers out to a disappointed groan from Sherlock, runs his hand up the back of Sherlock's thigh into the crook of his knee and hitches Sherlock's leg up over his good shoulder. "I'm going  to do better than that."

He kneels up and kisses the inside of Sherlock's knee because its there and because it's one of the few places he's actually touched him before today, and Sherlock pants out, "You don't mind?"

John howls with laughter, because now the memory of that night isn't miserable and aching, now that Sherlock's leg is warm over his shoulder and Sherlock's eyes are lit with arousal and love and affection underneath him, and as he's laughing, he moves forward and Sherlock's body opens to him, and the laughter dissolves into a growl as Sherlock raises his hips and clutches at John's thighs with stiff fingers.

It's too much, far too much, and John has to hold himself still for a long moment as his whole body trembles. Sherlock runs his palms up John's belly, scratches his fingernails lightly back down, and John leans over to kiss him, taking his leg with him so that Sherlock's knee is at their shoulders. It makes the angle so deep - so incredibly deep - and they both shudder as John slips his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, sucks at his bottom lip.

"I'm _inside_ you," John whispers against Sherlock's lips, his breathing irregular. Sherlock is so hot around him, so snug and perfect, skin on skin inside skin, and John wishes he could see where their bodies are joined together like this, could see inside as they become one person, forgetting where Sherlock ends and John begins. This was the only piece missing, and here they are.

Sherlock suckles on the end of John's tongue, curls his other leg around John's hip and puts the arch of his foot against the rise of John's arse. "You're inside me. Oh John, _John_."

Sherlock thrusts his pelvis up, fingers clawing at John's shoulders and waist, and John grinds down to meet him, sucks at his throat and his collarbone, licks over his Adam's apple. Sherlock is half hard against John's stomach, biting at his lip and sighing, writhing and wriggling, a deep red blush from his neck down. "You're beautiful, you're beautiful," John tips his face against Sherlock's chest and looks down their bodies, at Sherlock's twitching cock, the sticky wetness on their bellies, John's own driving hips and tremulous thighs.

"Oh god, this is -- oh." John breathes out, and comes, his stomach clenching, arse muscles spasming as he loses his rhythm and shakes and shakes. The tension of his arousal uncoiling and spiraling through him electric and fever hot. Sherlock's leg drops off his shoulder and Sherlock pulls him closer, bellies slick against each other.

"That's gorgeous, John. Oh, I can feel it. Inside me, I can _feel_ it. I love you. I love you." Sherlock kisses John's chin and his jaw, and John shakes and whimpers against him, wracked with tremors and chills.

Finally John regains some sort of muscle control, though his limbs feel like lead weights, and he pushes up slowly on his elbows to look into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock smiles at him languidly, his face smooth and young looking, more relaxed than John has ever seen him. His eyes soft, so soft and black and dark golden green.

"Hey, beautiful." John's voice is huskier and deeper than normal, and Sherlock reaches up to touch a fingertip to the center of his lower lip.

"Hey, yourself."

"That was incredible."

"Yes. _Quite_ incredible."

"Would you like me to get off you now?" John grins, traces a finger over Sherlock's nose.

"Well, it's just, you know. Breathing." Sherlock doesn't take his legs from round John's hips, though.

"Mmmm. Yeah. Breathing is good. I want you to keep doing that." John kisses the end of Sherlock's nose and nudges at his thighs. "Go on then."

Sherlock lets his legs fall open and John rolls to the side, pulling Sherlock to him in one smooth motion. Sherlock sighs and wriggles and sighs again and tucks his sweaty hair under John's chin and twines his left arm over John's stomach and John's left arm goes behind Sherlock's shoulders so he can put his hand in those curls and twist them idly round his fingers.

"Are you going to fall asleep?" Sherlock mumbles, sounding on the verge himself.

"Wasn't planning to. Bit hungry, actually. Want to get cleaned up and go downstairs, get some breakfast and more coffee? Like a date." John realises as he's saying this that an hour ago they were not a couple and now they are. Now when they go to Speedy's for eggs and toast and sit across the table from each other, John will hold Sherlock's hand next to the salt shaker, and Sherlock will rest his foot in between both of John's, and they'll be _together_.

This is the calmest he's ever felt in his life. Nothing before has ever felt so inevitable. So right.

"Yes, alright." Sherlock traces patterns on John's hipbone with his index finger. "I always knew, you know. About you. How you felt. Well. I thought I knew. Until Mary."

"I don't want to talk about her." John kisses Sherlock's hair. "You were dead and I was lonely. That's all. It's always been you, love. Since the second I walked into that lab. Always."

Sherlock hums happily at that and snuggles closer. "For me as well, John. Always."

"Took us long enough, though. Christ, we're idiots."

"Yes. Well. I always knew _you_ were."

John slaps him across the bum, laughing, and Sherlock calls him a prat and pins his hands above his head, so John flips Sherlock flat on his back, both of them giggling uncontrollably, and neither one of them is sure when the play fighting and wrestling turns back into kissing, but soon they're both very distracted from the idea of showering and eating and Sherlock wraps his hand around them both and squeezes and pulls and John sucks another bruise out on Sherlock's neck right before they both come all over Sherlock's fist and collapse panting next to each other.

John may or may not pass out, he's not sure, but he's suddenly vaguely aware of his stomach growling and a dull headache which means he needs more caffeine. Sherlock is definitely asleep, graceful even with his mouth hanging open and come dried sticky all over his stomach, so he leaves him there and pads downstairs for a shower.

Sherlock wakes while John's toweling his hair dry, and lays on his belly across the bed, eyes following John as he gets dressed, as if it is the most entrancing thing he's ever seen.

John bends down and kisses Sherlock's bare arse as he's buttoning his shirt. "Go get a shower, gorgeous. I'm starving."

When they walk into Speedy's to order their fried eggs and toast, their fingers are securely twisted together and they kiss while they wait for the food, Sherlock leaning over the table to press his mouth to John's while he twines his ankle around John’s calf, and they smirk at each other and don’t speak, because there’s no need, because whatever walls existed between them no longer do, because it was always about this, always about _just saying it_ , how'd they'd felt all along. The food comes and they eat quietly, sip their coffee and stroke each other's fingers.

The rest of the day is almost as if nothing has changed. They get a cab from Speedy's to Scotland Yard, talk with Greg about the case, and he smiles at bit more than usual at them and gives John a knowing wink as they leave which makes John blush from his hairline to his collar. They run a merry chase through Soho before John pins their target against a sooty brick wall and Greg cuffs him and hauls him in. They go home and have dinner with Mrs Hudson, who kisses Sherlock on the cheek as they head upstairs and says, "Finally," and they both giggle, because _oh god_ , she must have heard them, but she's happy and they're happy, so they can't feel too embarrassed. John types up the case while Sherlock fiddles with some experiment and then they catch each other's eyes, and drift into Sherlock's bedroom, kissing slow and deep and long, and when they're breathing hard afterwards, Sherlock curls his body around John's and strokes his hair as they fall asleep, and somehow seven years doesn't seem so very long after all. 

**  
  
  
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